The Cabin
by maryalicesmith
Summary: This is a story about the first time Peter and Neal met - great day for Peter, not so much for Neal.
1. Chapter 1

The Cabin

"I'll surrender but Kate goes free - she had nothing to do with any of this," whispered the tired voice in Burke's ear. "It was me totally. Let Kate go. Promise me."

FBI Special Agent, Peter Burke, sighed deeply as mixed feelings of exhilaration and sadness swept over him. He studied the small picturesque wooden cabin in the distance, with its' cute little overhang porch, corrugated rusty tin roof, and long silver wind chimes playing softly in the slight morning breeze lazily blowing through the narrow hollow of the Pocono Mountains. The cabin, hugged closely by tall pine and oak trees, looked deceptively peaceful as faint yellow light shined through the diamond-shaped beveled windows, and a slight wisp of fog-colored smoke wove its way skyward through the tops of the emerald forest in which the cabin was protectively nestled as though in the arms of a loving mother.

What couldn't be seen as easily were the dozen or so FBI, NYPD officers and U.S. Marshals surrounding the cabin, most of them hidden by last summer's fading hollyhocks and fragrant juniper bushes. Burke knew his team was growing weary and he himself was looking forward eagerly to going home to his wife, Elizabeth, eating a hot meal, and throwing himself into bed after two days with no sleep. A three-year chase was coming to an end but he was too exhausted to rejoice.

Neal Caffrey, bond forger, and con artist extraordinaire was playing his last card. He'd been a noble adversary and Burke felt a tinge of nostalgia that it was all coming to a close.

"I have no authority to make promises," said Burke into his cell phone, well aware Caffrey knew he was in no position to ask for any. "But I'll do what I can," he added, unnecessarily. A prey as challenging as Neal Caffrey deserved some small consideration in his mind and if the FBI agent could do this for him, it would be little enough. Kate Moreau was never the main target although Burke suspected she influenced Caffrey more than the young man realized.

There was a long silence on the phone and for a moment Burke wondered if the connection was severed. In the years he'd chased Caffrey, Burke took heart from the fact the young con artist never seemed reckless or sloppy; his every action deliberate and well thought-out. The FBI agent hoped that wouldn't change now - at checkmate.

"Alright," the voice drawled in his ear. "But come alone. Just you." Then, Caffrey added a belated, "please," which for some odd reason, tore at the agent's heartstrings. Burke was well-aware of Caffrey and Moreau's deep bond and he knew the young con artist was in agony at this moment at the certainty of their separation minutes away. Peter could not imagine how he would feel if he knew he was soon to be separated from his Elizabeth - for who knew how many years. He couldn't think about that now and put the thought quickly away.

Burke glanced over at Hughes, crouched stiffly a yard to the left. The old man nodded his head slightly, giving permission. During his long FBI career, patience was his greatest ally, and if they could end this with no shots fired, it would look good in his final report. Burke shivered momentarily, despite his bullet-proof vest, as he tore off his dusty suit jacket in the cold crisp autumn air and he slipped out of his gun harness, handing it to his aide, Jones, who was standing beside him. Quickly Burke stuffed his arms back in his jacket, feeling strange without his gun tucked under his left arm. It wasn't the first time he'd walked unarmed into a stand-off situation, but his heart pounded in his chest. You never knew what you would confront once you walked through that door, and he desperately hoped he knew Caffrey as well as he thought he did. The young man did not like guns, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be aiming one at the FBI agent very shortly.

With deliberation, Burke walked up the little moss-covered cobblestoned pathway, crisp fall leaves crunching under his shoes, now unfortunately damp (probably ruined) and caked with drying mud. This really was the cutest cabin, he thought to himself, trying to slow down his heart rate. It'd make a great get-away for Elizabeth and himself as he wondered who owned it and if it was available for rent. Burke reached the porch and slowly climbed up the three high stone steps and then found himself standing before the carved front door with its inset of stained glass showing a sleek Canadian goose in flight. The handle on the door was made from elk antler and the horsehair mat said "Welcome" in bright red letters on a background of hunter green. Now what? He listened for any sounds coming from the cabin but all was eerily quiet. A good sign? A bad sign? Burke didn't know. Caffrey was a smart young man - but smart young men did stupid things when they were cornered.

Lacking any other option he could think of, Burke knocked politely on the front door. Anyone home? He thought to himself, trying to stifle the giggles which occasionally came over him in times like this. Concentrate, Burke, he told himself sternly. One lapse in concentration could mean catastrophe.

"Come in," a male voice called. Burke felt oddly like the country preacher, from his childhood, arriving for Sunday dinner. With both hands, the agent pushed the heavy door open, grateful for his bullet-proof vest, aware it was small help if a bullet was aimed at his head. The door creaked open, a pleasant whiff of - bacon? hit his nostrils. Sure enough, a square wooden table with a blue-checked cloth was set with two place settings of fine Danish china; Burke recognized the pattern immediately as it was sitting in his kitchen cabinet at home. Sterling silver cutlery was placed beside each plate and rested on thick linen napkins folded three times over. A platter of still-crackling bacon was on the table as well as a plate of steaming buttermilk biscuits and a white/red speckled pot of what Burke assumed was coffee stood nearby along with other assorted paraphernalia - including a wine bottle? What - no eggs? Burke asked himself and then quickly put the thought out of his mind.

Looking beyond the finely set table, Burke's eyes adjusted to the darkness and on a soft leather couch against the wall he saw two figures tightly holding each other as though on a sinking ship. Neal Caffrey looked as exhausted as Peter Burke felt. His thick tousled hair was greasy and although his eyes shone black, Burke knew they were the lightest shade of pure blue, quite striking. He was indeed a handsome man even though there were nice dark circles under his eyes now. The young woman he clutched in his arms was, if not equally attractive, still very beautiful and her long hair covered them both like a protective veil. She wore a close fitting long-sleeved white blouse open at the neck to the top of her generous breasts and a long scored blue denim skirt which reached to her ankles. Black boots peered out from under her skirt and the right heel was tapping the floor nervously

"Breakfast?" offered Caffrey, bravely attempting a smile it was obvious his heart wasn't in. His young face was somber and his jaw trembled slightly as he fought to control his emotions. His arms held onto the young woman like he would never let her go. He wore dirty torn blue jeans and his long feet were bare as they rested on the inlaid oak floor. Only a thin white t-shirt covered his upper torso and Burke could see the fine definition of muscle underneath.

"Thanks - I'd like to," said Burke with an easy grin. "But - no time." Caffrey nodded. His hard-won smile was beginning to crack at the edges and intuitively Burke recognized he needed to do something quick; he didn't want to drag a weeping Caffrey out of the cabin - to the jeers of the lawmen outside. "However, I will have some coffee," the FBI agent continued pleasantly, picking up a tin cup from the table and filling it with the deliciously smelling brew, still piping hot.

"Cream?" he queried, glancing over at Kate, who pointed to the small lime green refrigerator in the corner. Burke turned and walked the few steps, his back to the couple. If they were going to shoot him, they'd done so by now, he figured. Adding a splash of half and half to his coffee, he took a cautious sip. Wow! Where'd Caffrey get this stuff anyhow? It was the best coffee he'd ever tasted.

Returning, Burke pulled out one of the old slatted chairs with its crocheted brown seat cushion and sat down, the laden table behind him. "Are you armed?" the agent asked cheerfully as though asking if Caffrey had a cup of sugar he might borrow.

Caffrey shook his head 'no' adding "You know I don't like guns – but then, you know everything about me, right?"

Burke shook his head regretfully. Indeed not, he thought to himself. I don't know why a brilliant young man ends up in an isolated cabin in the woods surrounded by a dozen law enforcement officers when he could easily have had his pick of careers and be living a life of luxury anywhere in the world. This wasn't how arrests usually went down and the pseudo hospitality of the young couple had briefly thrown him off his game. Caffrey was staring at him intently and Burke was struck by how much more stunning he was in person than in his surveillance photos. He could easily be a high-paid model or even an actor. Kate too was beautiful, although somewhat younger, and she clung to Neal, her round face alternating between expressions of bewilderment and defiance.

"What now?" prompted Caffrey as though reading Burke's thoughts, his voice strained. He clutched Kate tighter. "I told you - Kate had nothing to do with any of this. I don't care what you do with me - but Kate goes free - right?" It was more a plea than a question. It might have held more sway with Burke had he not known it was a lie. Kate herself was no angel and her criminal record reached back long before her association with Caffrey. Burke didn't know what part she played in Caffrey's cons, but innocent she wasn't. However, he knew better than to debate the point here. He'd once been involved in a similar "easy" surrender that ended with four agents dead. Stick to the basics, Peter - he reminded himself.

"I have no authority to make deals," repeated Burke. He knew Caffrey would see through any lie; the con man's gift was to discern the truth even though he himself seldom employed it. Caffrey threw his head back in frustration and uttered a groan as his face grew darker and his eyes began to dart about the small cabin searching for an escape route he knew did not exist. "However, I'll put in a good word with the District Attorney; we're on the same softball team - he's a good friend." Burke added, words which seemed to calm Caffrey and he relaxed his grip on Kate's arm and she scooted away slightly. The small movement was not lost on Burke who sensed Kate was further along in acceptance of the situation than Caffrey.

"Cross your heart promise?" prompted Caffrey, dredging up a childhood phrase Burke hadn't heard in years.

"Yes - cross my heart," reiterated Burke, neglecting to add the second part of that promise. He felt no animosity towards this young man; but only regret such brilliance was wasted. What a great FBI agent he would've made! Briefly the agent's mind drifted to the team they might have been, Caffrey's intellect and his own experience and determination. Too bad the young man made such poor life choices. Regardless of what deal was made with the DA, prison was a certainty and it would be a harrowing place for a man like Caffrey who'd need every wit he possessed to survive.

"OK," Caffrey announced with all the solemnity of a judge, "I trust you." He said it with such dignity, Burke forced himself to keep from grinning. The FBI agent knew he should get up now and handcuff the young couple and call his agents in to take them away. But damn, this coffee was good and he wanted to finish it. So the three of them sat in silence for a few minutes, each with their own thoughts and by time Burke put the empty cup back on the table, Caffrey was noticeably more relaxed and he'd loosened his grip on Kate who'd moved to the other side of the sofa.

Slowly Burke rose from his chair and reached back under his coat to pull out his handcuffs. Emily Post never wrote about the etiquette of putting handcuffs on a suspect and Burke was sensitive to the ambiance in the room; he didn't want to startle Caffrey to where he startled and ran. The cuffs sparkled in the dim light of the room as Burke opened them with care and then glanced over at Caffrey who'd also risen from the sofa and was staring at the cuffs warily, resignation on his young face but open uncertainty as well.

"I'll try not to pinch you," Burke offered airily, as though he were administering a flu shot. Reluctantly the young man turned around and put his thin arms behind his back. Burke was good to his word and carefully locked the cuffs on, making sure to get no skin. He sighed in relief at the final click. Three years. It was over. He could take a vacation without thinking about Neal Caffrey. Elizabeth would be over the moon.

After pulling out his two-way radio and summoning the others, he ordered Jones, "pack all this stuff up - trash included," glancing at the empty wine bottle standing incongruently on the table. Burke noticed the bacon - as well as the biscuits - had vanished. "Put his socks and shoes on!" Burke called out to the two U.S. Marshals who were in the process of pushing Caffrey out the front door in his bare feet. The men glanced back in annoyance at the FBI agent but saw the look on his face meant business so they shoved Caffrey into a chair by the table and started searching around the room for his shoes, hoping to find socks as well.

"Where's your coat?" asked Burke of Caffrey, as he pulled out his leather binder to begin taking the notes he would need for his report to Hughes. The young man nodded in the direction of the four-poster bed in the corner covered with a colorful crazy quilt. Jones, following this exchange, retrieved the leather jacket and then pulled Neal to a standing position.

"No funny stuff, okay Caffrey?" said Jones, as Burke tossed him the key to the handcuffs. "Just put the jacket on and I'll put the cuffs back on - OK?" Caffrey mumbled a barely audible "yeah", his thick hair falling over his face, obscuring his downcast eyes. After Caffrey pulled the worn brown leather over his grimy cotton t-shirt, the Marshals produced a pair of scuffed western style boots, size 13, along with a dirty pair of black socks which they tossed at the young man's feet. "Put those on too," Jones ordered, jiggling the cuffs in his hand impatiently as he watched the young con artist they'd chase for so long. Neal sat down again to comply.

Kate was already seated in the backseat of one of the NYPD cars, lights blazing. Her round open face was tear-stained and she kept shaking her straight long hair out of her eyes as she looked forlornly out the car's smudged window. More tears rolled down her face as she saw the U.S. Marshals prodding Caffrey to another NYPD car behind hers. Their eyes met and Caffrey began struggling with the two men on either side, illogically, trying to get to her. "Kate!" he called, desperately, his handsome face screwed painfully up with open longing. "Let me just say good-bye!" he begged, tears beginning to run down his grimy cheeks.

"Put Caffrey in with Moreau," ordered Burke, observing from the porch.

"Sir, that isn't procedure," protested one of the marshals, already annoyed by how long this was taking. Just throw the scumbag in the car and let's get the hell out of here, he thought to himself. He was on overtime and his captain was a stickler for the bottom line; he would be angry this had taken so long.

"I'm senior officer here," Burke pointed out to the fidgeting middle-aged man with the pot belly and acne scarred face. Hughes was on his way back to Manhattan to another case. "Do what I tell you."

The man's dour expression said it all, but he obeyed. With irritation he pulled Caffrey roughly over to the car where Kate waited and yanked the door open, pushing the young man down, forgetting to protect his head from the door jam. Caffrey stumbled into the backseat of the police cruiser, losing his balance, and crumpled on top of Kate. He struggled to right himself, made harder that his hands were restrained behind his back. Gently Kate helped him as best she could with her shoulder and in a moment he was snuggled next to her, their bodies touching, their feet intertwined. Caffrey leaned over and they kissed, a deep lingering passionate kiss that made Burke blush and he looked away.

"Thank you!" Burke called to the acne-faced Marshal, making no effort to keep the sarcasm from his voice. In sotto voice he whispered to Jones, "Get that man's name and number."

Two NYPD officers climbed into the front seat of the patrol car and with a slight wave to Burke, one started the engine while the other picked up the radio. Caffrey turned his head and met Burke's gaze, their eyes locked for a moment before the car drove away down the muddy bumpy washboard road. Burke knew they would meet again at Caffrey's trial and he wondered briefly what would become of him after that. His personal cell phone rang and he saw his home number on the screen. "Hi, Hon," Peter Burke said, a happy smile opening on his face. "Yeah - it's over. It ended peacefully. You won't have to hear about Neal Caffrey any longer!" he teased her playfully. While he knew that wasn't exactly true - there was still a trial to prepare for - this day indeed felt like a milestone. Persistence and experience trumped brilliance and youth - as he always knew it would.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"This is the weirdest experience," remarked FBI Special Agent Peter Burke, staring warily off into the distance at the wooden cabin with its cute little overhang porch, corrugated rusty tin roof, and tipsy stone chimney reaching unsteadily for the stars. The long silver wind chimes hanging on the porch still played their soft melody and the humid breeze blowing through the narrow hollow was just as lazy as it was seven years ago when Burke last heard the faint music coming to him over the glen.

"Totally," agreed Neal Caffrey, squinting at the cabin in the cool of the early morning light as the sun climbed from behind the cluster of pine and white oak trees. "This is where you stood?"

"I think so," Peter replied, looking around uneasily at the stickery sweet junipers surrounding them – and oh yes, there were the hollyhocks in their fading colors of red, purple, and white, nearly as bedraggled as last time. Everything was exactly the same as that morning seven years ago; it was hard to believe nothing had changed since then. Although he could not remember the smell of honeysuckle so strongly then when he stood here and now looking off into the distance he saw a small cluster of white boxed bee hives cradled in the bottom of the hill and a small dark figure moving amongst them. Were those here last time?

"I always wondered why you tracked so much mud into the cabin," said Neal, looking ruefully down at his dirt encrusted dress shoes. Attired comfortably in black t-shirt covered with a worn brown leather jacket and his favorite pair of jeans, he wondered, again, why he had chosen such inappropriate shoes for this trip.

"That's what you were worried about – how much mud I tracked in?" asked Peter, turning to his friend with wry disbelief on his face. The agent was dressed much more formally, in fact he had chosen nearly the same attire as the last time he was here. Well-worn blue suit, button down white shirt, red and white tie, a bit too wide for the season now. However, as proof of lessons learned, an old pair of walking shoes were on his feet. He wasn't about to ruin another pair of good shoes at this place.

"OK, not so much at the time," admitted Neal, sheepishly.

"Well, for one thing we walked – crept – crawled - up this private drive, it was over a mile long. In the dark, no moon, with only battery flashlights, shielded at that, to prevent us from breaking a leg in the gopher holes, squirrel holes – whatever they are. Then we waited for over six hours for you to come out. In the dirt. It rained. It was one long night."

"If I hadn't come out?"

"I was willing to wait," Peter said, sagely. "The last thing we wanted was to get into a stand-off situation."

"One of your guys gave you away," remembered Neal, trying not to wince as the dark memories flooded painfully back – too quickly. As Kate began to make breakfast that morning, she'd asked him to go outside to find flowers for the square blue-checked clothed table. Who imagined such an innocent request could spell the beginning of the end? "I saw a flash of his yellow jacket in the brush."

"Yeah, that was too bad," said Peter, shaking his head. "Another ten steps and we would've had you, quick and painlessly. Instead it turned into the very thing I was trying to avoid."

Neal stared blankly off into the distance. He could see Kate so clearly in his mind's eye, standing on the little stone porch, her thick long brown hair blowing in the gentle warm breeze, her favorite skirt tightly cinched at her waist, her sweet ample breasts threatening to burst through the cotton blouse she'd grabbed quickly just before their escape from the Four Seasons. The picture was so clear that for a moment he actually thought he saw her still standing on the porch and he quickly looked away, reaching up to rub his eyes. When he looked back, he saw nothing but the little cabin standing placidly in the distance.

Here was where he and Kate spent their last night together, their last moments. Neal asked Peter to bring him back but now that he was here, he was having second thoughts. If Kate's spirit was anywhere, it would be here, in this little cabin in the Poconos. But the memories were rushing back too quickly and he felt overwhelmed. What if he walked into the cabin and it was just – a cabin? What if she wasn't here? Knowing would be so much worse than not knowing. If she wasn't here – where was she?

"What are you hoping to find here?" asked Peter, casting a reflective glance at Neal. He'd initially been reluctant to make this trip and had a myriad of excuses as to why it was not a good idea. But Neal was nothing if not determined and although it took all of his con artistry skills of persuasion, duly noted by Peter Burke (literally in his new iPad), his dogged persistence finally broke through the FBI agent's resistance. It was not lost on the agent that it was he – Peter Burke – who was responsible for what happened that day, he alone was responsible for pursuing the young couple to this remote hideaway, he was the reason that this was the last place Neal and Kate were lovers. It was he – Peter Burke – who started the chain of events that would end in Kate's death. And he wonder for the nth time why Neal did not blame him for that. Or did he?

Suddenly a thought raced through his agent's mind, perhaps there was a reason Neal had insisted on returning to this place. Maybe the con artist did hold him responsible for Kate's death, maybe he had a hidden gun somewhere, maybe he was going to…

"Can we go in?" Neal asked, breaking through Peter's paranoid thoughts.

"Of course," Peter said. He felt a wave of shame wash over him. No, Neal did not hold him responsible. How he worked it out in his head, Peter could not guess. But he'd been an agent long enough to have a finely honed sense of when someone was a danger to him and he sensed in Neal no malevolent intent.

As they walked toward the cabin, the autumn leaves crunched under their shoes, crackling like embers in a dying fire. A sudden cold shiver went through Peter and he looked around anxiously. There was some strange ambiance here that he had not sensed the first time and he couldn't put his finger on it. It was almost like an unseen presence. At the thought, he relaxed and smiled to himself. Ghosts! Like he believed in those. He put it down to too much coffee. Elizabeth warned him repeatedly.

Neal paused at the bottom of the little stone steps and turned around, his handsome face with its' 24 hours of beard a puzzle of open emotions, none of which Peter could read to his consternation. "Can I go in alone?" he asked plaintively. Peter suddenly got the uneasy feeling Neal was ready to throw himself on his knees, if need be. This was that important to him.

"No problem," said Peter, leaning against the wooden post at the bottom of the stairs. "I'll wait out here."

Neal nodded, gratitude flickering across his pale face for a moment. He turned and ran up the stairs quickly. He paused for a moment at the door and looked down at the green and red welcome mat. Almost with reverence he touched the elk antler door handle, his forefinger caressing it gently. Then he slowly pushed the heavy door open and silently slipped through the dark opening, closing the door carefully behind him with barely a sound.

Peter continued to lean against the porch's post, his eyes surveying the scene in front of him. Instead of the dying hollyhocks, the junipers, the crunchy blanket of autumn leaves covering nearly every empty space – he saw squad cars, their rotating red and blue lights bouncing off the bare birch and maple trees. He saw Kate staring out the window from the backseat of one of the police cars, her round face shining with shed tears. He saw Neal, hands handcuffed behind his back, being dragged roughly down the cobblestoned path, he saw him struggling with his guards, he heard his anguished cry…

"Peter!" Burke jumped what he assumed was probably a good two feet in the air, at the voice behind him. Good grief – where had he been anyway? His face colored with embarrassment as he turned to face Neal behind him.

"God – I didn't mean to scare you!" exclaimed Neal, gazing at Peter anxiously. "Are you OK?"

"I am fine," Burke said, brushing the incident away. Damn caffeine.

"Do you want to come in?"

"Sure," Peter said. "Er…you don't mind?"

"Of course not," Neal replied, his face a palette of never seen emotions. Different emotions. Peter's bewilderment mounted uneasily.

Pushing the heavy door open, Peter stepped into the small cabin just as he had that long ago morning seven years ago. He suddenly felt his breath sucked out of him only to realize he'd stopped breathing. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness within, he looked around. No cozy fire this time, no warm glow of kerosene lamp. Yet there was the square wooden table with its blue-checked cloth and there were the two place settings of fine Danish china, dust free. Peter could almost smell the bacon and fine fresh coffee, one of the best he'd ever tasted. There was the leather couch Neal and Kate were sitting on that morning and looking beyond Peter could see the old-fashioned ornate iron bed still made up with the crazy quilt thrown over on top. Seven years had passed but it looked as fresh and new as the day he had first set foot in this cabin.

"Shit!" exclaimed Peter, who, oddly, rarely cussed. "It's like we went through a time portal. It's exactly the same!" Who owned this place anyway? He'd tried to find out years ago but never could track down the owner of the property.

"It's exactly the same," repeated Neal, behind him, with an odd satisfaction in his voice but lacking the amazement that was now making Peter's heart pound so fast he was momentarily afraid it might falter – please God not here.

"I can see that," Peter agreed, staring around in disbelief. He strode over to the small lime green refrigerator and opened it. Empty. Thank god. If a quart of half and half were sitting there, he'd be halfway to the car by now. "I've got to tell you, Neal, this is a bit – spooky."

"Not spooky," contradicted Neal with a satisfied grin as he surveyed the cozy room.

"No? What would you call it?" asked Peter. He'd become uncomfortably aware of the tremble in his legs and hoped desperately he wouldn't have to sit down. He looked over at Neal who seemed amazingly calm. His face wore an odd expression Peter had never seen before and then it came to him – peace. Neal was at peace.

"Home," replied Neal.

"What?" asked Peter, puzzled.

"Kate is at home here," said Neal, happily. "Waiting for me."

"Neal…" protested Peter, looking at his CI worriedly. So had the stress of Kate's death finally gotten to him? Was Neal at last having the mental breakdown he'd always worried might be lurking?

"Can't you feel her here?" asked Neal quietly, turning to Peter. "Can you honestly tell me you don't feel her here?"

"I…er….um…." stuttered Peter. What was he supposed to say? He definitely felt something here, if it was Kate he had no idea. If Neal thought it was Kate – who was he to disagree? It was obviously relieving some angst in Neal to imagine her here. "There's definitely…an ambiance…here, Neal. Whether it's Kate or - ?" Peter shrugged his shoulders.

"She's here," announced Neal with conviction, the calm smile playing around his lips. It was clear that Peter's opinions didn't matter. Neal was convinced she was here and that would be all there was to it. "And it's time for us to go."

"Neal, you can stay longer if you want. I'll take a hike around the property."

"No, I am fine. I needed to know Kate was OK. She doesn't need me here. It's not time yet."

"Okaaaay," drawled Peter, feeling totally out of his depth. Maybe he better make an appointment for Neal with the FBI psychiatrist."

"I am not crazy, Peter," Neal said, easily reading Peter's thoughts. "But if you want me to see a psychiatrist, that's fine. Anything to set your mind at ease."

"Thanks," said Peter, somewhat reassured. He walked out on the porch, leaving Neal to say his good-byes to Kate, if that was what he was doing. Lord knew. Looking out over the meadow, he sighed deeply, taking in the sweet smelling fresh air. He'd never seen such an idyllic place. Who the hell did it belong to, anyway?

On the ride home, each kept quiet with their own thoughts. Peter was trying to figure out how he was going to share this day with Elizabeth – what would she make of it? Neal's eyes were closed, his head back on his headrest, feigning sleep. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his jeans and his right hand fingered an antique iron key, unbeknownst to Peter. Persistence and experience may have trumped brilliance and youth, mulled the FBI agent to himself, but Peter had an uncomfortable feeling the game was not over yet.


End file.
